Thoren could not tell how long he had been flying. The undead Sanguine Vulture did not tire. It did not need rest. It did not need food or water or sleep.
It could fly for eternity if he commanded it, its undead body sustained by the dark energy that bound it to his will.
That was the nature of the undead. Tireless, relentless and inexhaustible.
Unfortunately, that was not applicable to him.
His body was not undead. His mind was not immune to exhaustion. The tension that had gripped him since the ash tide first appeared had not released its hold.
It had only tightened, coiling around his spine like a serpent, squeezing with every passing moment.
His muscles were knotted.
His jaw ached from clenching.
His eyes burned from staring into the gray void, searching for threats that never appeared but never truly vanished either.
His nerves were stretched to the breaking point.
He could not stop.
He knew that.
